


permanence

by ilet (orphan_account)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21680311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ilet
Summary: He never sees it coming.
Relationships: The Mandalorian/Omera (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 178





	permanence

He never sees it coming.

One moment, the Mandalorian is making his way through the crowded spaceport with a crate of newly acquired rations tucked under his arm; the next, something hits him square in the back, catching him off guard. He finds himself facedown on the ground, the air knocked from his lungs.

It’s a wonder he’s not trampled to death as panic erupts and sends everyone scurrying away, ducking into alleys and through open doorways to evade the assailants.

He rolls to the side in the dust just as soon as another shot is fired off, narrowly missing the scorch mark as he darts behind a mudbrick corner for cover. Another shot goes off, inches from his position, and he draws back, withdrawing his blaster pistol before moving again. He moves behind a row of low, crumbling dwellings in a crouch, scanning the rooftops for the shooter.

_There_. The muzzle flash comes from the roof of the cantina down the way. Someone has flattened themselves, trying to avoid returning fire as he aims his blaster and squeezes the trigger in quick succession.

A standard blaster bolt catches him the shoulder, coming from the left of the sniper’s position, causing him to drop behind a parked landspeeder.

That’s one question answered: there are, at the very least, two assailants.

The Mandalorian peers out from behind the landspeeder’s bumper just in time to see the second shooter scurry behind a column.

It hardly takes any time to formulate a plan. Tensing his shoulders, he vaults over the bumper of the landspeeder and sprints in the direction of the second shooter, narrowly missing the succession of shots the sniper fires at him. He pitches forward, going in low, and uses the momentum to twist around the corner: he delivers a quick kick to the gut before aiming his blaster and firing. The second shooter, a male Clawdite he only vaguely recognizes, goes down with a thud, twitching. The Mandalorian shoots him in the throat and flattens his back against the column in the bounty hunter’s place, breathing hard.

He doesn’t waste any time: he sprints back towards the landspeeder, drawing the sniper’s fire. At the last moment, he rolls to the side and dives behind a line of market stalls. He keeps low to the ground, making his way to the end of the line. When he glances over the stall counter, he can see the shape of the shooter on the cantina roof, clearly now: even from this distance, the Mandalorian can tell it’s an Arcona. Steeling himself, he pulls himself up to standing, positioning himself between the metal frames of the stalls, aims, and fires.

The Arcona slumps forward, off the cantina roof and onto the ground. A moment passes: the Arcona doesn’t stir.

Silence hangs in the air like a thick mist until the murmur of voices reach him. The residents of this backwater port are beginning to peer out of doorways and windows to see if the coast is clear. One by one, as the stillness stretches on, they begin to filter back out into the street.

The Mandalorian steps out from behind the stalls. He walks back to where he dropped the crate of rations, and this time, instead of walking in the crowd, he ducks into a back alley. His eyes can the rooftop as he keeps close to the wall, still armed.

A blaster goes off behind him. He whirls, prepared to shoot, and freezes.

A third body lies dead in the center of the alley. A human male, most likely, with a hole in his back from the hit. His blaster rifle lies uselessly under him.

But the Mandalorian isn’t looking at the fresh corpse anymore; his eyes are on the figure standing in a darkened doorway, their blaster raised. He tenses, waiting, and then the figure holsters their weapon. Out from the shadows steps a figure in durasteel armor, their face covered by a Mandalorian helmet. The durasteel is a battered, faded red; it looks older than he is, and it glints dully in the sunlight.

When neither of them move, the Mandalorian chooses to holster his blaster. “Do I know you?”

The other nods once, taking another step forward. Their gloved hands go to the sides of their helmet.

Disbelief blooms in his chest when the helmet comes off. In a flash, it is chased out by an overwhelming feeling of _warmth_.

“Omera.”

The woman smiles at him in that soft way of hers. She tucks her helmet under her arm and closes the distance between them. When she stops in front of him, she tilts her head, peering up into his visor. He glances down at hers, and sees its cracked. The armor itself, he realizes, doesn’t have much integrity anymore. If he has to guess, he would say this armor was made well before the Clone Wars. By who and exactly when, he can’t say.

But Mandalorian armor is Mandalorian armor.

He doesn’t know what to say or what to think, so he chooses the most obvious place to start: “what are you doing here?”

Omera’s smile slips. She raises a gloved hand and tucks loose strands of her her dark hair behind her ear; he sees now that the rest of it has been braided back and off the nape of her neck, tightly bunched at the base of her skull. “A lot has happened since you left.”

_Sorgon_. He feels a twinge of regret. “Why are you on Ord Mantell?” Then, his voice hoarse, “Winta—?”

Omera quickly shakes her head, giving him a reassuring smile. “She’s fine,” she says. “She’s back at the ship.”

He blinks. “You have a ship?”

Omera shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “No, I mean _your _ship.”

“My ship,” he echoes flatly.

Omera’s smile curves into a grin. “Yes,” she says, “your ship.” She glances up and around. _Checking the roofs_, he notes. _Another sign of experience_. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “not at all.”

The two gaze at each other in silence for a moment, and then Omera dips her chin. “Shall we take our leave?”

“Yes,” he says. They begin walking. She doesn’t put her helmet back on.

He doesn’t know how else to ask. “That armor,” he starts, “are you…”

Omera shakes her head. She still smiles, but it’s sadder now, which he immediately regrets bringing about. “I’m not a Mandalorian,” she tells him gently as they emerge from the mouth of the alley into the outskirts of the spaceport and head towards the landing platforms.

He holds his breath, waiting.

Her eyes stray to the horizon, where the sun would set in a matter of hours. “It was a parting gift. When I…” she clears her throat. “When I was pregnant with Winta, I was in Hutt Space. I was running out of time. I—” she inhales sharply, as if remembering something painful. She stops walking, and so does he. They are now halfway between the spaceport and the _Razor Crest_.

“A band of rebels found me,” she says, turning to look up at him, unsmiling now. “They took me in, and cared for me. One of them said he used to be a Mandalorian. I didn’t understand why he said that until, well…”

He nods. Suddenly he understands.

“He told me to take his armor,” Omera tells him. “He said I was the only one he’d met who he thought could wear it.” The corners of her mouth twitch upward into a small smile; to his relief, it reaches her eyes. “And,” she adds, glancing down at the helmet tucked under her arm, “he made me promise to give it to Winta when she was old enough.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

Omera’s eyes glint in the sunlight. Her smile is rueful; she shakes her head. She opens her mouth to answer him, but is interrupted by the sound of her comm going off. She brings her wrist up to her mouth, pushes a button on her wrist guard, and says, “Winta, we’re almost there.”

“Just checking,” Winta’s cheerful voice chirps over the faint hum of static. “You _did _tell me to check, Mommy.”

“That I did.” She sighs, but her smile is full of love and warmth, not exasperation. “We’ll be there shortly.”

“Okay,” Winta says, and with a burst of static the comm link is disconnected. She turns and starts heading for the _Razor Crest_; he falls into step beside her.

“How’s your boy been?” she asks him. He finds he doesn’t mind her changing the subject in the least; he suspects they’ll have plenty of time to talk about it later.

The Mandalorian hasn’t the faintest idea where to begin, so he sighs, heavily. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and only shakes his head. Omera laughs. The sound makes his heart skip a beat.

Together, they step onto the landing pad and make their way towards the _Razor Crest_. Before he can send the command to the ship, the boarding ramp releases and suddenly Winta is there, in front of him, her hair coming out of its ties. Her dark eyes are like twin moons dancing. She looks just like her mother. In her arms, the child babbles and coos. It turns, meets his gaze, and reaches for him.

The Mandalorian sighs again. This time, he can't help but smile.


End file.
